Blackhand by Gareth Clegg

Day 3 - Season of the Winds - Second Year of the War

They said it would all be over by Yule and, fools that we were, we believed them. Now here we are in the Cragfall mountains, freezing our balls off, and dragging half those who are still alive. This wasn’t a retreat, it was a bloody route. The creatures that emerged from the Darkspire were like nothing we’d seen before. Even the grizzled veterans pissed themselves, dropping their weapons as they fled screaming from the darkness.

Day 4 - Season of the Winds - Second Year of the War

It was only a matter of time before Jurgen died. I found him this morning, eyes frozen open, and a more piercing blue than I ever remembered—perhaps it was the ice? His beard was a mass of icy tentacles, while black streaks rose up his face like soot from the smithy. He often spoke of how he longed to return to that warmth and beat metal until it surrendered to his design. But that forge will remain cold now, like him.

Day 10 - Season of the Winds - Second Year of the War

We struggled for almost a week, trudging and falling in our snowy descent. But finally we cleared the snow-line, and those most able-bodied of us fell to the ground, kissing the green shoots that broke through the crusted earth. As I stared at my fellow survivors, I marvelled that we’d made it this far in good health, but the blackened fingers all around spoke of hardship to follow. 

“Once it’s black, it won’t grow back.” We grew up hearing that motto from our parents and village elders. Most of the men will struggle to lift a slops bucket when they get home, while I seem to have been lucky, if that’s what you can call it. Just two toes and the little finger on my left hand are coal-like in appearance. I can’t feel a thing in them, not even the blade of my knife.

Day 14 - Season of the Winds - Second Year of the War

We’re saved! The village of Hammit welcomed us, offering shelter for brave warriors. A healer looks over the worst cases as I write this. I don’t hold out much hope for any of those unfortunate wretches. But the villagers tell that their healer is a miracle worker. Praise the gods that it is so.

Meanwhile, those who made it through that godforsaken pass sit huddled around the tavern hearth, luxuriating in its burning heat. Ryden, the old barkeep, wonders how we can stand it that close to the leaping flames, that we’ll scorch our skin into ruddy leather. He doesn’t understand that we each hold within us a core of ice that feels like it will never melt, even if we thrust ourselves into the roaring inferno.

Day 15 - Season of the Winds - Second Year of the War

So much for miracles. The village healer saved two of the twelve men he was tending. Fucking charlatan! Jorge was about to put his axe through the bastard’s skull, but I made him see straight. More senseless killing won’t bring his brother back now. I went with him to view the blackened face. I’d never seen Jorge as much as sniff, but tears welled in the gigantic bear’s eyes and his frame shook in silent grief. Unable to watch, I left him to it.

Day 18 - Season of the Winds - Second Year of the War

I dream of black faces and clawing hands reaching for me through the snow, dragging me down a slow and tortuous descent into the icy Hel far below. When I awake, my heart lies solid, a block of ice, cold and unfeeling. I rise before dawn, unable to lie in this damned bed any longer, and head out. Perhaps hard work will pull me from this cursed melancholy?

Day 21 - Season of the Winds - Second Year of the War

Sleep eludes me. I search for it, like a drowning man grasping for the surface, and it always feels to be there, but just out of reach. I hide in my hut at night after drinking myself into a stupor, but even unconsciousness last only a few hours and I’m plagued by those dead faces—soldiers, enemies, friends—they’re all the same. Rotten black leather, creaking and twisting as they stare at me full of hatred. Why did I survive? Why were they sacrificed to the ice? I don’t understand any more than they do. I’m nothing special, a carpenter with a strong back and sawdust between his ears. 

Day 28 - Season of the Winds - Second Year of the War

I chop wood. Dawn till to dusk. Day after day. The sound relaxes me, the rhythm like a mantra. I no longer join my brethren in their drinking and debauching at the tavern. It does nothing for me. I have little to say to any of those I once called brothers, even Jorge. 

Thoughts of Jorge intrude on my work and the heavy axe skitters from my hand as it hits the edge of the block instead of the centre. Jorge worries me. I don’t know why, but he isn’t the beast he once was. My body has bulked out with this constant activity. When I’m not splitting logs, I’m heading into the forest to fell trees and then drag them back here. It was a struggle at first, requiring the aid of the two old nags that pull a plough once the ground unfreezes. Now I do it alone, rope wrapped around me like a lover’s embrace. 

Every day, Jorge seems to diminish, growing weaker, almost shrinking in on himself as greybeards sometimes do. All the while, I grow in strength, able to work longer, harder and with even less sleep. The other men grow restless, starting fights and taking the villagers for granted. No more do they pay for their upkeep, they believe that they should sup and dine here for free, and seize whatever they desire from the townsfolk. It will not end well.

Day 1 - Season of the Thaw - Second Year of the War

I dreamt of home last night. It seemed I watched as my former life passed me by for hours, days even, but when I awoke the sky remained as dark as when my head hit the straw-stuffed mattress. I’d never killed anything before the levy came through—except perhaps a pig or two, but that was for food. That split eyed sergeant asked my name, thrust a spear into my hand, and kicked me in the arse every time I fell out of step with his new recruits. We soon learned to hate that old bastard.

Day 14 - Season of the Thaw - Second Year of the War

I woke during the hours of darkness again and headed out towards the trees to fell them out of earshot of the sleepy villagers. But before leaving the village, I heard screams from the tavern. I hefted my axe and sprinted through the ankle-deep snow to find the old barkeep screaming through a bloodied and broken nose to stop them hurting his daughter, Yelga.

I burst through the door, taking the damn thing off its hinges in a burst of splinters, and spotted Jorge and Larryk by the roaring fire. It burnt like a furnace while they fed broken furniture into the beast. I ignored them when I heard a woman’s scream from the back room and burst in to find Torvik pawing at the poor girl’s torn dress. He yelled at me to get out, that I could have my turn later. I told him to leave her or there would be trouble.

Jorge and Larryk stared as I escorted the girl from the back room. Their eyes lingered on the bloody axe-head trailing a line of crimson as I dragged it behind, but they said nothing and made no move to do anything other than continue feeding the fire. When I reunited Father and daughter, I told them to go home and lock their door.

Day 15 - Season of the Thaw - Second Year of the War

Yesterday was difficult. After the incident at the tavern, the villagers remained indoors during the day while I confronted my once brothers. They were a ragtag group of filth-encrusted vagabonds. Had I once looked like that? I told them it was time for them to move on, that they weren’t welcome here anymore. It looked like they might argue for a moment, as several of them drew weapons, but Jorge put an end to that. He was their leader, but I could see the fight had gone from him. Dark sunken eyes stared out at me as he gripped my arm in a warrior's embrace. 

“You’re staying here then to protect them?” he asked. I just nodded. “You’ve changed, Ivar. No longer the frightened boy we picked up nearly a year ago. May the gods go with you. I will take these sorry sacks of shit somewhere new, somewhere larger. Goodbye, brother.”

I waited, watching as they shuffled off. It took a solid blow across the face from Jorge to get Talle moving, he’d been the nearest thing to a friend that Torvik had, but he fell into line. The group departed and slowly the villagers appeared, nervously approaching, led by Ryden and Yelga.

Day 25 - Season of the Thaw - Second Year of the War

The snow is receding at last, green rushing back to the land. Soon the folk will be tilling the soil and planting, while I continue to chop wood. Yelga seems to have taken a fancy to me, and who am I to complain, she’s a fine-looking woman. I have even developed a taste for mead again, and Ryden is always happy to keep my flagon full. 

The people of Launbrekka have come to calling me Ivar Blackhand, the spread of the black mark from my little finger now covers my hand to the wrist. It concerns me, and I can’t explain how I still have full use of the fingers, but there is no discomfort and everything works as it should.

I grow stronger every day, and now easily drag two trunks back from the forest edge after felling them. The villagers think I’m some sort of gift from the gods, sent to protect them from the ravages of war. I’m not so sure, and I fear for all of us should the dark creatures from my visions ever descend on our peaceful village. For now, the dreams persist, and I keep my axe always within reach. But with Yelga by my side, at least I sleep a little more soundly now.